


Splash

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ficlet, Hand Jobs, M/M, merman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 08:07:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1420864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim briefly encounters an alien.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Mer!Spock Art](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/43711) by Hellaillogical. 



> A/N: Inspired by [Hellaillogical’s awesome art on tumblr](http://hellaillogical.tumblr.com/post/77158169724/au-where-spock-is-a-curious-mermaid-with).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“Wait!”

It’s a first instinct reaction, to shout, to yell, to race after the beings rapidly disappearing under the water’s murky surface. In a matter of seconds, they’re long gone, which, Jim concedes belatedly, is probably for the best. The Prime Directive grips him short of jumping in and swimming down after them; clearly, these people aren’t warp-capable. Their life signs didn’t even register from the Enterprise’s computers, perhaps due to some unknown chemical in the liquid that holds them. It looks like regular, M-class water, but when Jim consults his tricorder, he finds that it isn’t.

He kneels down at the faux-water’s edge anyway, the familiar discontent seeping in. Prime Directive or no, he missed a chance for first contact, and that’s always disappointing. Discovery is the whole reason for his voyages, and clearly, from the majestic way the half-humanoid, half-aquatic creatures appeared, this would’ve been an interesting meeting.

Instead, he’s left to examine the surface of the ocean, broken into by cliffs of jagged rocks that the water laps gently against. The rest of the landing party has spread out, and Jim, not ready to share his frustration, remains alone for the time being.

He’s adjusting the settings on his tricorder when he becomes aware of a rippling effect below, and he moves the instrument aside, watching a large, greenish shape appear beneath the misty depths. Wary, Jim crouches against the rocky shore, ready to lunge aside if need be—in case some alien shark is about to snap out at him. But as the creature moves closer, the brown eyes quickly gaining definition are distinctly humanoid.

A minute later, the being is breaching the surface, dark, cropped hair flicking away drops of water as it straightens, shoulders just barely exposed, the rest still below—a humanoid torso, dipping into the scales of a fish. Something like the human notion of a mermaid, Jim thinks. Or a merman, judging from the alien’s chest. His skin is a startling shade of green, alight on his cheeks and shoulders and the bridge of his nose in little bioluminescent dots, freckles of a sort, glinting prettily in the clear-blue sky of the world. The rest of him isn’t that different from Jim, except that his ears are elegantly pointed, and his eyebrows are arched downward, his even bangs stopping just short of them. His head tilts to the side as he stares at Jim, and he opens his mouth to create a flowing, exotic sounding language that reads gibberish to Jim’s ears.

Transfixed, Jim stares. He’s experiencing the familiar tingle of newness, that tightness in his chest that holds him captive, made warmer by the sheer _beauty_ of the alien. The alien talks for nearly two minutes before the Universal Translator finally kicks in, and random words filter through to Jim’s ears, syntax gradually following behind. By the time the alien halts its speech, Jim’s confident enough in the translator to speak.

But he doesn’t know what to say. He has to say something, now. Prime Directive be damned; he’s already caught with his pants down. Having nothing to go on, he smiles and offers his kindest, softest, “Hello.”

The alien simply blinks at him, elegantly shaped bow lips in a thin line. He looks neither friendly nor unfriendly, simply curious.

In a nervous habit, Jim licks his lips. “I’m Captain Kirk of the starship Enterprise.” A moment later, he adds, “...To whom do I have the honour of speaking?”

The alien stares at him for several seconds before conceding levelly, “Spock,” which could be a name, or a rank, or the translator’s failing, or anything, really.

Jim assumes it’s a name and smiles wider, repeating, “Spock.”

“Captain.” Spock’s tail flicks in the water hard enough to create a small wave around him, peaking over the surface a moment later. The twin fins are translucent and arch Spock’s body forward, his pebbled nipples appearing just over the surface. Jim’s cheeks warm automatically; somehow, he always finds the most attractive aliens. If Bones were down here, he’d never hear the end of it. In their mutually explorative silence, Spock asks, voice deep and silky, “Where are you from?”

The smart answer would be the surface. But the alien must know it to be a lie; judging from prior scans, there aren’t _any_ life forms on the surface larger than algae. For some strange, inexplicable reason, Jim doesn’t want to lie to this merman. It just doesn’t seem like a good way to start... whatever they’re starting.

So he says vaguely, “The stars.”

Lifting one eyebrow, Spock rephrases for him, “Another world, then. You could, of course, not survive on a star.”

A smile automatically tugs on Jim’s lips. “No, I suppose not.” Perhaps they _are_ a space-faring race after all, watery impediments or no. Or at least, they’re not new to the concept. He mentally scolds himself for being so quick to judge.

His turn for a question. “I saw some others of your kind first, but they swam away. Why?”

Spock’s lips twist into a frown, or at least, what would be a frown in Terran terms. On an alien, the expression could mean anything. “They did not wish to speak to you; you are obviously not logical.”

Jim’s own eyebrows lift. That... wasn’t an answer he was expecting. “Why is that?”

“You limit yourself to two dimensional movement. Clearly, you are not suited to the freedom of a liquid environment. Therefore, your species is funded upon irrational concepts.”

“Clearly,” Jim repeats, half dryly and half amused. He’s been judged by some fairly strange ideas before, but this is a new one. Still, he can’t help but wondering at how very not surprised these aliens are. “Am I not the first land species you’ve seen?”

“You are the first I have seen, though others of my kind have seen other aliens. They have proven of little consequence.”

“Ouch.”

Spock’s eyebrows knit together, and it takes Jim a moment to realize that ‘ouch’ probably doesn’t translate well.

Jim tries another tactic. “ _You_ came to talk to me. Do you think I could be of consequence?”

Something on Spock’s face changes; his cheeks swirl darker: something akin to a human blushing. He opens his mouth once before saying slowly, “I am... different from the others.” Then he looks down, mouth twitching, and though Jim has no way of knowing, he’s sure he’s said something wrong. Obviously, this ‘difference’ isn’t a good thing.

Jim doesn’t ask. It seems more personal than this tentative conversation is. Instead, he searches his brain for something else to say. He should ask to see Spock’s leader, he supposes—that’s usual first contact protocol. But... evidently, that leader would have no interest in speaking to him. And Spock _does_. And Jim... Jim doesn’t want to waste that.

There’s something about the pretty alien that Jim knows he’s already enamoured with. It’s a common problem of his, particularly when faced with new kinds of beauty, and Spock has a luminosity that he’s truly never seen before. Spock’s eyes flicker back up under Jim’s gaze, and Jim asks before he can stop himself, genuinely curious, “What do you conclude about me?”

Though Jim knows it’s much too early for a full analysis, Spock says simply, softly, “You appear... fascinating.”

Mouth already forming a broad grin, Jim returns instinctively, “Thanks. You’re pretty gorgeous yourself.” Which is hardly an appropriate thing to say or at all what Spock said, but Jim’s a Kirk, through and through. Spock’s cheeks turn greener, the new darkness of skin better framing his iridescent freckles. Spock’s tail twitches, perhaps nervously.

Then Spock wades a few tantalizing centimeters closer, and he leans in, less than half a meter from Jim, and whispers conspiratorially, as though afraid his colleagues would overhear, “Perhaps we could... study one another... more intimately?”

And Jim’s eyebrows lift through the roof. He knows it was meant innocently, can tell from Spock’s wide, brown eyes, but that doesn’t stop his pulse from racing faster, his heart from clenching. Perhaps Spock is some sort of scientist, specializing in alien biology. Or perhaps...

Eyelashes lowering as he leans his own distance closer, close enough to feel the ghost of Spock’s cool breathe, Jim mumbles, “I think I’d like that.” It’s his duty to contribute to the pursuit of ‘knowledge,’ after all. He’s inexplicably drawn to Spock, and he doesn’t miss the way Spock’s fingers are hesitantly rising from the water, sliding over the rocks...

Then he plunges down in the span of a heartbeat, splashing water just as a red energy beam slices into the air he occupied a split-second before. Jim’s head wrenches aside, spotting a redshirt on a nearby terrace with a phaser drawn and pointed. When Jim looks back, Spock’s disappearing into the depths, and Jim, with his heart dropping into his stomach, shouts, “Hendorff, what the hell!”

The security officer’s already rushing closer. Looking genuinely surprised, he splutters, “Captain, the alien was looking at you dangerously. There was a ferocious hunger in it! For your own safety—”

“I can handle my own safety,” Jim snaps. _He_ certainly didn’t see any ‘hunger,’ and if he did, a phaser certainly isn’t how he would’ve handled it. Growling in frustration, he rubs at his temple, searching what little information he did gather. The aliens don’t seem dangerous, at least. They might ignore Jim, but they probably wouldn’t hurt him. Perhaps...

Hendorff stops a few steps away from Jim, and Jim straightens to his feet, still staring longingly at the water. Finally, he passes on, “Go back to the ship and have Chekov run an analysis on this ocean. Then, if it’s safe, have Scotty rig up an aquatic suit. Understand?”

Hendorff blinks. “But, Sir, none of the dilithium will be—”

“That’s an order, Cupcake!”

Hendorff’s nose immediately wrinkles, but he’s earned the nickname in this situation. With a stiff nod and a lackluster salute, the redshirt turns and heads off, already taking out his communicator.

Jim, perfectly equipped to handle himself, takes a seat back on the rocks, and hopes for his alien Romeo to reappear.


	2. Third

On their third meeting, Jim steals him away. There’s a part of the shore line that twists around low-hanging cliffs, and there Jim sits in swim trunks, tucked behind a particularly large slab of rock that blocks the rest of the scientific team from view. He doesn’t bother with the pretense of looking for dilithium crystals anymore—let them do that. He’s the captain, and he’ll take shore leave when he likes. 

He asks if the water’s too shallow here for Spock to enjoy, and Spock says he’s fine—he can breathe on land when he chooses. But he doesn’t sit on the rocks. They’re too hard and bumpy against his tail, he explains, and he needs some relief. He asks if he can sit _on_ Jim, and though Jim colours and splutters in surprise, he winds up hiking the beautiful merman out of the water. Spock’s greenish arms wrap tightly around his neck, tail springing out, and Jim scoops Spock up with one arm beneath his back and the other supporting his tail. The tail itself feels smooth and sleek, the scaling texture subtle, and it’s not at all slimy like Jim might’ve thought, but it is damp. Jim settles back into place between the rocks, cradling Spock up against him, so close that the alien could easily dive back into the water if need be. 

In their secluded hiding place, Spock leans back, hands slipping from Jim shoulders. He’s getting Jim wet all over, but the hot sun makes it more than bearable. Pleasant, even. Spock’s heavy in his lap, but refreshing cool and pretty and alight with a curious glow. His freckles seem to shine in the shadows of the cliff above, something that makes Jim’s breath catch. But everything about Spock does that. 

Spock asks, “May I examine you, Captain?”

And Jim nods before remembering to say, “Yes. Of course.” This isn’t usually how alien biology is studied, but... he hardly wants to argue. This is much _better_. 

Spock lifts long fingers to the sides of Jim’s face. Thin, sheer webs stretch low along the grooves between them, just little things that wouldn’t complicate entwining fingers—not that Jim’s about to do that. The pads of Spock’s are slightly paler than the rest of him and similarly iridescent to his freckles—Jim wonders how sensitive they are. Spock’s thumbs trace over the curve of Jim’s ears, and Jim shudders. He wonders if his ears seem as strange to Spock as Spock’s pointed tips do to him. He lets Spock idly rub up and down the rims of the shells, slicking Jim’s hair in their wake. Spock’s own hair is flat even as it dries, and though it’s hardly the flowing motion associated with the mermaids of Terran myths, it suits him. He finally lets go of Jim’s ears in favour of tracing down Jim’s jaw, lightly drawing over the tiny, one day’s worth of stubble. His eyes widen as he thumbs Jim’s chin, and he murmurs, “It is prickly...”

“My species grows hair in that area,” Jim explains, fighting the urge to lick his lips and catch Spock’s hands in the process. He’s still holding Spock’s back and tail loosely, simply for a place to put his hands. Spock’s skin is startling soft to the touch. “We often cut it off.”

Spock makes a short humming sound in the back of his throat—perhaps the alien equivalent of a nod. His hands finally leave Jim’s chin and drift down his neck, one palm covering his adam’s apple as he swallows. Spock’s index fingers dip along his collarbone before trailing out and cupping his shoulders. Then they’re running down his chest, and Jim sucks in a breath as Spock’s thumbs stop to flick over his nipples. Spock rubs them experimentally and asks, eyes staring down at the quickly forming pebbles, “Do these produce milk?”

Jim feels his cheeks flush and mumbles a short, “No.” He wonders vaguely if Spock’s do—if that’s why Spock would ask. A flicker of surprise flashes over Spock’s face, but then he evens out again—on the whole, he’s very level. Unemotional in demeanor. His hands continue their journey downwards, stalling to thread through the short tufts of blond hair beneath Jim’s navel. 

Spock’s palm presses over Jim’s shorts, and Spock’s tail shifts back enough to make room, both hands cupping Jim tightly, and Jim gasps, his own grip tightening. Spock glances up and asks, “Have I done something wrong?”

“Uh, no,” Jim says stiffly, though he probably should say the opposite; Spock’s still holding him, and his body’s responding. He can feel his blood rushing lower, and when his cock twitches in Spock’s hands, Spock looks down again, head tilting. Jim bites his bottom lip and wonders absently if this is unfair—Spock doesn’t know what he’s doing—Jim should stop him. Why did Jim think this biology lesson would be a good idea, anyway? 

Spock rubs at Jim’s hardening cock through the fabric of his trunks and mumbles, “Fascinating.” Then Jim’s mind is spiking off in a new direction—how do Spock’s species make love? He obviously doesn’t have a cock. Or maybe he does, and it’s sheathed. Maybe he’s not a ‘he’ at all, not how Terrans understand it, anyway. Most species have multiple genders. But the translator’s been using ‘he,’ and Spock has yet to correct him.... Looking up, Spock murmurs, “What is the purpose of this cloth?”

“It’s, um...” He honestly has to search his brain for that one. “Protection?”

“From one’s environment,” Spock concludes correctly. “I understand. You do not have scales, as would be the more logical design. ...Why is only this area guarded? Is it of particular importance?”

Immediately, Jim says, “Yes.” But then Spock lets go and moves his hands away, holding onto Jim’s thighs instead, and that’s a guilty disappointment. 

“Is the shaft I was feeling a sexual organ? It does bare a vague resemblance to...” But the word he says doesn’t translate, giving Jim no more information than before.

Red and surprised, Jim mutters, “Yeah.”

Spock’s cheeks darken in response, but otherwise, he appears unaffected, still as though this is purely scientific, until his head lowers. Looking somewhat downcast, he says, “I apologize. I did not mean to intrude.”

Too quickly, Jim says, “You didn’t. I mean... it’s fine. I liked it. Ah, not that—” And then he cuts off like some bumbling, blushing schoolgirl instead of the confident Starfleet captain he usually is. He’s usually better with aliens than this. Better at seduction than this. But he’s never had a merman before, and he’s never been groped before a first date’s even started, and there’s something about _Spock_ that just turns him into a mess with a too-fast heartbeat. He tries to smile sheepishly. 

He’s shocked when Spock returns the gesture, if a little more stiff. Then Spock hesitates, and one of his hands slips closer to the destination Jim wants. “Could...” Spock pauses, eyes looking away again. His downward eyebrows are more expressive than he’d probably like to know. “Could I see it...?” Fiercely, he looks back at Jim and insists, “For research. I find your species utterly interesting, and I truly appreciate you allowing me to externally examine your body, Captain. It is a truly unique opportunity.”

For ‘research’s’ sake, Jim concedes, “Yes.” But a large chunk of him knows he’s just trying to get Spock’s hands on him again, and the rest of him is disappointed it’s not just touching for touching’s sake. It might be his imagination, but Spock’s face is turning steadily greener, just like Jim’s is getting steadily redder. Perhaps Spock’s species are green blooded, he thinks. If he were smart, he’d ask.

Instead, he sits back and lets the merman push his swim trunks down his hips and pull out his cock, at first very clinically, and then a little shakily. And then Jim’s engorged dick is jutting proudly out in the air, and Spock’s exotic fingers are working around it. Spock runs two fingers up its length and over the tip, fingering it lightly. Then they scissor apart to brush over it, allowing the sensitive flesh to feel the slight webs at the base of the fingers. Then Spock is thumbing him, then palming him, then encasing his shaft in two fists and pumping expertly up it, as though Terran pleasure is Spock’s true area of expertise. Jim’s biting into his lip hard enough to draw blood. 

Spock’s looking down at him with widening eyes, burning with interest—still scientific? Jim doesn’t know, and he can hardly think clearly. Spock holds one open palm against his cock, steadying it as the other hand brushes up and down again with the same two fingers. Jim mumbles a breathy, “Spock—” But he doesn’t know what else to say, and it hangs in the air, useless. Spock looks up at him but doesn’t respond, just keeps touching him, rubbing him, up and down, skin so silky _soft_ , and Jim’s is so very sensitive there, and then Spock cups his balls, squeezing lightly, thumb pressing into them, and Jim’s breath hitches. Spock’s head leans down, closer, examining Jim at his most vulnerable, and the damp, black hair fits under Jim’s chin—Spock curls against him, leaning on him, shoulder along Jim’s stomach, tail twisting around him like a deadly anaconda trapping him in, and in a way, this is just as dangerous, and he’s just as caught. Spock massages him so perfectly, and it’s all Jim can do to focus, to moan just in time, “ _Spock._ ”

But Spock doesn’t heed his warning. He spills over into Spock’s fingers, and Spock, freezing in clear fascination, simply _stares_ as Jim spurts onto both their stomachs. Probably one of his biggest loads ever, if his quickest to come. 

Only when it’s finally done does Spock move—he scoops a glob of Jim’s cum off the tip and lifts it to his lips, lapping over it with a small, pink tongue. 

Spock lifts one eyebrow, evidently finding the taste pleasing, and sucks his finger into his mouth, licking off the rest. 

The minute he pulls his finger free, Jim’s on him. One hand wrenching Spock into place by the back of his hair, Jim slams their lips together, sealing them into a bruising first kiss, and Spock, gasping in surprise, melts in his arms. The arm behind Spock’s back wraps in tighter, pulling Spock closer, and Jim runs his tongue along Spock’s lips, delighted when they open—he dives in, tasting the vanilla-like caverns of the alien’s mouth, sweet and soft and warm and wet, and Jim sucks on Spock’s tongue and runs his teeth over Spock’s, and he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, and his mind doesn’t catch up with him until it’s much, much too late. 

When it ends, and Jim pulls back, they simply look at one another, equally surprised.

Jim opens his mouth to apologize, even though he has no regrets, and instead, Spock grabs his biceps.

Spock jerks him backwards, at the same time leaping from Jim’s lap, and Jim goes tumbling into the water after him, swallowed up in another alien ocean.


End file.
